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It was just a few days before Storm Babet when we turned up in Dawlish for a week’s holiday – and to meet a new-to-me cousin.
Strolling down to Dawlish Warren through our Golden Sands Holiday Park, we stopped at a lovely dog-friendly pub for fish and chips (well, when at the seaside…) and thought we’d walk back via the short route – as described to us by a local out walking her little dog. Whilst my dog Rollo and her furry friend sniffed bums hello, the lady pointed out the “short” route home up a steep hill, followed by a right turn.
So, 4.9 miles(!) later and in the pitch dark, we hobbled into the holiday home and collapsed in a heap on the sofa. Rollo looked pleadingly at his cushions, as it seemed he didn’t even have enough energy for that big leap up.
I still don’t understand how that short route turned out to be so long.
Anyway, the following morning, we thought we’d drive down to Dawlish town – which is delightful. We walked through a lovely little park with a stream running through it and dozens of ducks quacking away – and I also discovered that I’m practically the same height as a rhinoceros – before we exited onto the prom.
After stopping for a cuppa – and of course cake – we drove down to Teignmouth, parking at the top of the hill and walking down yet another steep slope towards the beach and the railway.
As we walked along the sea wall, which runs alongside the Great Western rail line, we stopped and watched a young man taking pictures of passing trains.
Talking to him, he told us that he lived locally and if we waited for a few minutes, we could wave to the Poppy Train; beautifully decorated with hand-painted names commemorating all those Great Western employees who gave their life during WW1.
It turns out that Tony Christie (and yes, he’d heard the Amarillo joke a hundred times) is the railway photographer for most of the train mags we buy, and he’s earning a living from his wonderfully nerdy trainspotting hobby.
Teignmouth is a fascinating place, full of little indie shops, pubs, and tea shops – most of which are doggy-friendly. But there were also plenty of charity shops (my favourite) where, rather naturally, I added to my wardrobe.
I’ve recently learned to crochet but with great difficulty. Being left-handed, it’s taken an age for me to get the hang of it, and even now I can only crochet with super chunky wool and a large crochet hook.
But wandering around a doggy-friendly yarn shop, I was moaning that I didn’t have enough pension left to indulge myself when the lovely owner pointed me in the direction of her bargain bucket at the front of the shop.
My husband gave me a loving look, which meant ‘help yourself’ and so I did, buying all the super chunky wool I could carry. I’ve now nearly finished the best crochet blanket I’ve yet to make.
And then it was time to meet my new cousin.
I’ve been investigating my family history. I knew from talking to Dad that his father had come over to London from Russia (or Ukraine, as it now is) at the beginning of the 1900s, but I’d never known how or where they’d come from or even how they got here. And the same goes for my Mum, who I knew was born in Liverpool, but whose parents were also Russian.
I found out just recently that my Mum had been living with about seven step brothers and sisters, none of whom she’d ever mentioned – but I did know that my new cousin Kate’s grandmother was my aunt Isa who used to send us the most badly wrapped brown paper Christmas parcels.
Kate’s dad (my cousin Phillip) used to come to London from Exter to visit us, though sadly died when Kate was just four. So she never really knew him and had always been told he was a bit of a ‘ne’re do well’, so she was thrilled to meet somebody who could tell her just what a lovely boy he really was.
Kate is the image of my brown paper parcel Aunt, and it was wonderful to sift through all the facts we did know and try and figure it all out. And it was so odd, trying to figure out why her Dad put my maiden name on her birth certificate.
But, how I regret not talking to my parents about their heritage. Having found all manner of secret papers hidden under the bed, I never plucked up enough courage to talk to them about it, although I did manage to find a half-brother (born to my Dad and his first wife) who turned out to be living less than 30 minutes away. And because Dad and his firstborn son hadn’t seen each other for over 30 years, it was emotional to be able to get the two of them together.
We loved Teighnmouth so much that we made walking along the sea wall a daily treat – ice cream at one end and cream tea at the other. And the weather – the weather was glorious – a real Indian summer and I just can’t believe that a few days later Storm Babet closed that walk, and the trains were cancelled.
And that’s our holidays over for the year. Roll on next year – we’re going to explore Yorkshire.
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